


Randygazoo

by okapi



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Consensual Somnophilia, Ficlet Collection, Figging, Glory Hole, Human Furniture, Kinktober 2019, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-04 22:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: For Kinktober 2020. Jeeves/Bertie. PWP.10.One just doesn't not look a Sexy Nurse Costume gift horse in the mouth, Jeeves.There's a parcel mix-up at Berkley Mansions. POV Jeeves. Rating: Teen.Chapters 1-4 were for Kinktober 2019 and fills for the DW give_satisfaction kinkmeme. All chapters stand alone. Check chapter summary for warnings.





	1. Like Clockwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie doesn't know exactly when what's inside him will go off. Sex Toy. 
> 
> For Kinktober 2019: Day 26: Toys.

It had a timer.  
  
The thingagummy which was up my ying-yang had a bally timer, and at some choice moment, it was going to go off and vibrate which would send the pride of the Woosters exploding like a Roman candle and the rest of the y.m. melting in a pool of lusty jelly.  
  
But the trick was, and there is always a trick with these things, of course, that I knew neither the day nor the hour, so speak, when the knock on the most tender part of me was going to arrive.  
  
Jeeves had set the timer, and only he knew the appointed moment of bliss.  
When we’d set the Queensburys for this gig, I’d begged off a luncheon with Aunt Agatha, pleading a sudden and acute case of sprue, the odds being high that Aunt Agatha might look more closely into putting me into a home if I went into epileptic raptures between the soup and fish at Claridge’s.  
  
Jeeves had just popped down to the shops for a whatsit or a whatnot when the knock came.  
  
Not the knock of the clockmaker’s joy inside me, but of the door.  
  
“Bertie?”  
  
Lord, love a duck!  
  
Aunt Agatha!  
  
“I know you’re not ill, Bertie. I want to talk to you about a young lady I met the other day at church, and then I want to ask you to take Thomas to the Old Vic next month when he…”  
  
Ding!  
  
What happened next was a bit of a blur.  
  
I may have convulsed like an electrocuted Peke impaled on a chump chop. The magic wand inside me may have buzzed until my eyes rolled back into my onion.  
  
When I recovered, I was lying on the floor, looking up at a highly amused Jeeves and a highly disappointed Aunt Agatha.  
  
“Oh, Bertie.”


	2. Back to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long drive back to town provokes a reaction. Omorashi. No accident. Dialogue only.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 28: Omorashi.

“Sir, do you think the operating the vehicle at this velocity is wise? In town?”  
  
“I can’t slow down now, Jeeves. We’re almost home, and, well, with all the glasses orange squash I downed at the treat, it was scorcher of an afternoon, after all, and us having to oil it back to town so quickly because of, well, you know, and then the bally road construction bring us to a snail’s pace and blocking any respectable nook where we might’ve stopped, well, the upshot is nature’s calling, if you catch my meaning, and in a few moments, the phone’s going to ring off the hook, as it were. Here we go. I’m just going to leave her here, and ring the garage to pick her up after…”  
  
“You’ve answered call?”  
  
“Precisely, Jeeves. Oh, you needn’t hurry, too—unless you’re in the same condition?”  
  
“I’ll assist with the door, sir.”  
  
“Oh, brilliant, Jeeves. I really think I might make a mess of myself.”

* * *

“Oh, Lord, love a duck!”  
  
“Sir!”  
  
“My trousers! Jeeves, I’m too addled to work the thingagummy. Oh, I’m going to…”  
  
“Allow me, sir.”  
  
“Please, Jeeves! Quick! Oh! Oooh! Ooooooh! That’s the stuff to give the troops, isn’t it, Jeeves? Oh, my sainted aunts, that feels good. Oh, you needn’t hold the pride of the Wooster unless…unless…you fancy it.”  
  
“Are you quite relieved, sir? No more distress?”  
  
“Uh, oh, well, yes, uh, Jeeves, that rubbing?”  
  
“This rubbing, sir?”  
  
“Yes, your hand, just like that, back and forth, right across the old water bottle, yes, below the belt but above the, uh, faucet, you know, it feels quite wonderful, Jeeves. Oh!”  
  
“I’ve got you, sir.”  
  
“The knees seem to have gone on strike, Jeeves.”  
  
“Understandable, sir.”  
  
“Is it? Jeeves, is that…? I mean to say, are you…?”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir. Very sorry. Please forgive me. Most unseemly. I’ll ring the garage.”  
  
“Jeeves, stop. Don’t go. Please. Let me give you some relief, too. Oh, you are massive, Jeeves.”  
  
“You flatter me, sir.”  
  
“Jeeves, I’m going to much more than flatter. Now, spit!”  
  
“Oh, sir?! Very well. Pfft! Oh, oh…”  
  
“What’s the word I want, Jeeves?”  
  
“Omorashi, sir. It’s from the Japanese.”  
  
“Omorashi? Marvelous culture, the Japanese. And they have a word for everything, including ‘I’ve got a bally gorgeous prick in my hand that I’m going to stroke ‘til it spends.’”  
  
“Not quite, sir. I’ll explain later. Oh, oh…” 


	3. Whatever Plugs your Dam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie just has to put something in the wall. Glory hole. 
> 
> For Kinktober Day 29: Glory hole.

The whole thing began as most descents into depravity do, viz. at the theatre. I went to see that hit show everyone’s talking about, no, not that one, the other one, the comedy, and right about the end of Act Two, there was this toppin’ gag. The punch line was something along the lines of a little Dutch boy being sorry he put his finger in the dike, but a lot bawdier. Now, at the time, I was rolling in the aisles with the rest of the audience, but later, it also gave me a bit of thought for food, as they say.  
  
By chance, Jeeves had seen the show on the previous Thursday, his day off, and we chatted about it when I returned to the old homestead. I mentioned the gag at the end of Act Two, and he, perhaps sensing the question behind the question, asked,  
  
“Have you ever had occasion to visit to the St. Damien Bath, sir?”  
  
“I’ve heard of it. A bit out of town, isn’t it? I usually go the one on Northumberland Avenue.”  
  
“Yes, sir, but I understand that on the subterranean floor, near the coldest of the bathing pools, a gentleman may, should he wish, put his finger in the dike, as it were.”   
  
This was news to me. “Really, Jeeves?”  
  
“So I’m told, sir.”   
  
“Well, whatever plugs your dam, I suppose.”  
  
“A noble attitude, sir.”

* * *

Of course, the next day, it happened to be a Thursday, curiosity murdered the feline, and I took a hired chariot out to the hinterland, and sure enough, as I was stretched out on a lounge chair, doing my best impersonation of a sleeping man by what they called the ‘Arctic Pond,’ I overheard a conversation.  
  
CHAPPIE 1: Oh, here comes Rogers now! What ho, Rogers! How’s the linen closet? Filthy as usual?  
  
RODGERS: What ho. Sadly no. Clean as a whistle. No takers.   
  
CHAPPIE 2: Too bad.   
  
RODGERS: Yeah, now I know how the little Dutch boy felt in a drought.   
  
CHAPPIE 1: Cheer up, old thing. Let’s go have a smoke in the drying room.   
  
I waited a goodish amount of time after they’d oiled off and then headed in the direction from which Rodgers had come. Or not, as it were.  
  
There was a curtain with a sign on the wall beside it labelled ‘Linen.’ I pulled back the drape and took a tentative peek inside.   
  
It was a short, narrow corridor with a stone wall on one side and no exit. The ‘Linen’ sign had not been false advertising as at the far end there were shelves stacked with folded towels.  
  
It was empty so I entered, and halfway to the towels, I saw it: a hole in the stone wall right at the level of plugging.   
  
Well, well, well, I thought.  
  
Now you might suppose that just because some people often wonder if I ought to be in some kind of home, that I’m the kind of idiot who sticks his finger in any old dike without thinking.   
  
In this case, you’d be figuratively, if that’s the word I want, wrong, but, literally, quite correct.  
  
No sooner had a stuck my pointer in the hole than it was enveloped in a wet heat. I wiggled it. There were teeth and a tongue on the other side.  
Promising.  
  
The lips, tongue, and teeth worked up and down from knuckle to nail, long enough for Bertram’s Bertram to imagine the possibilities and want a turn.   
And that’s when I stuck my finger, and now I mean my prick, in the dike.   
A slicked hand with a nice, firm grip caught hold of me at once and without so much as a howdy-do began to stroke. And there I was, cheek to stone, pressed flatter than a crepe suzette, getting my plate of frigs with bells on through a hole in a wall.   
  
And it was glorious.  
  
When I’d spent, I stepped back, chest heaving, until I was slumped against the opposite wall.   
  
Then I leaned forward again and put my finger back through the hole, crooking it in a beckoning motion.   
  
The cock that appeared through the hole was so big, so thick and beefy pink with a nice vein down the side, it made my mouth water, and that was a good thing, because I hadn’t thought to pack any slick.   
  
I spat like an ornery camel on my palm and then gave it to ‘im like a policeman on boat race night. When he tipped his helmet, so to speak, he sent four long stripes ‘cross my furry robe, and the sight of it made me want to go again.   
  
Not certain of the etiquette, I bent very low and gave his prickhead a quick peck, sort of like a curtsey, then I made my way back to the Arctic pond to douse the flaming loins in an ice bath.   
  
The next Thursday, I was back, naturally, at the same hour, and this time, I got a mouth. Oh, my sainted aunts, it was a mouth that made me think of those Egyptian mummifiers who drove a stick up the dead pharaoh’s nose to scramble his brain before they yanked it out. My brain was poached, but my body was on fire, and my cock was as hard as the stone that separated me from that blessed orifice.  
  
As soon as I’d released the pride of the Wooster, I fell to my knees and got my Christmas wish because it was the cock from the previous Thursday.   
I don’t think it’s come up in any of my earlier chronicles, so readers may not be aware that your author is without a gag reflex. So I took every inch of that mammoth when it shot through the whole and swallowed him down like a Jonah-gobbling whale.   
  
It didn’t take long.   
  
I gave the head another kiss and crumpled to the floor as it retreated.   
The next Thursday, I took the bull by the horns and did the ‘come hither’ motion when I put my finger through the hole.   
  
As soon as that Greek god of cock was through the hole, I spun ‘round, dropped my robe, pulled out the plug and let him gore me.   
  
And, oh, God, I’ve never felt more like a luckless matador. He pissed stream after stream inside me and clenched ‘round, not wanting to let him or it go.   
  
I kissed his prickhead, suckling it a bit as it drew back.   
  
And once again, the stranger read my desires, for when it was my turn, he gave me his mouth again.  
  
‘The Soul’s Awakening’ doesn’t cover it. Not by half.   
  
It was bliss. Utter bliss.   
  
But when it was over, and when I was alone again, I felt a fog of despair creep in. Rather than lounge about the pool for hours as I had on previous occasions, I stumbled back upstairs, cleaned myself, and headed home.   
  
The fog hadn’t lifted when Jeeves brought the breakfast tray in the next morning.   
  
“Sir, is something wrong?”   
  
“No, Jeeves, rashers crisp as usual.” Then I remember my manners. “Did you have a good day off?”  
  
“Yes, sir. I visited St. Cosmos’.”   
  
“A church, Jeeves?”  
  
“A bath, sir, adjacent to St. Damien’s. St. Cosmos is for the man on a stricter budget than yourself.”  
  
I blinked.  
  
“The two establishments do, however, share a wall, is on the subterranean level,” he continued. “Yesterday was my third visit. I found it exceedingly pleasurable.”  
  
I stared.   
  
“Jeeves!”   
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Jeeves?”  
  
“Yes, sir!”   
  
“Jeeves?!”  
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
“Oh, Jeeves!”  
  
“Yes, indeed, sir.”  
  
“What say we, uh, save Holland from the comfort of our own home.”  
  
“An admirable suggestion, sir. One I wholeheartedly support.”  
  
“Bring your whole heart and the rest of you here!”  
  
“Yes, sir!”


	4. A Shropshire Wake-up Call.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one bed in the room at the inn! Consensual somnophilia.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 29: Sleepy sex.

“I suppose it could be worse, Jeeves,” I said, eyeing the surroundings. “We could’ve got the Mary and Joseph treatment.”  
  
“No room at the inn, sir?”  
  
“Precisely and been stuck sharing a manger with a donkey and our Lord and Savior.”  
  
“I will be quite comfortable sleeping on the floor, sir. It is only for one night.”  
  
“That’s taking the feudal spirit a bit too far, Jeeves. Noblesse oblige demands if anyone get their forty winks on the rug, it’s me, but, I say, this is rather the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, isn’t it? And that ark of a bed looks big enough for two of us. And after all, as you say, it’s only for night. We share.”  
  
“Very good, sir.”

* * *

“By Jove, Jeeves, have a dip in this bed. It’s like lying on a cloud!”  
  
“Exceedingly comfortable, sir. The pillows, too.”  
  
“You’re a bit of human furnace, aren’t you, Jeeves? I mean, body heat and all that. I suppose it’s a thingagummy from all the brainwork you put in, gears turning, etcetera.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll move further away.”  
  
“No, please. It’s quite nice. Cosy, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“Is this all right, sir?”  
  
“Yes, Jeeves. That’s toppin’. Well, I suppose we have to get up at some beastly hour in the ack emma, don’t we? I mean, something earlier than a civilised half nine.”  
  
“It is advisable, sir.”  
  
“I’m going to need something like a wake-up call.”  
  
“Would you prefer a wake-up call in the London style or the Shropshire style, sir?”  
  
“Oh, well, I don’t rightly know. What’s London style?”  
  
Jeeves gave the left shoulder a shake.  
  
“And, uh, Shropshire style?”  
  
And at this, I was treated to a pair of soft lips pressed to the left side of the Wooster neck once, twice, thrice followed by a sweeping caress of a tongue.  
  
“Oh, well…” I stammered.  
  
“That is upper Shropshire style,” whispered Jeeves in a low rumbly tone that turned my insides to jelly.  
  
“And, uh, just how do they do it in the Midlands, Jeeves?” I managed to croak.  
  
The mouth returned to work at the old swan stand, but then a warm hand slipped ‘round my waist and under my heliotrope pyjama shirt. A wet finger and thumb found the left bud and proceeded to coax it to hard bloom, if you catch my meaning.  
  
Well, what could I do but turn my head and offer the mouth more land for developing and arch my back to get more of those magic digits? And moan a little, of course.  
  
“Jeeves, does there happen to be a low Shropshire wake-up call?” I asked when I woke to the knowledge that the Wooster cock was as wooden as the bedpost.  
  
“There does, sir, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

* * *

“Oh, God, Jeeves,” I groaned when he’d returned, sank his mitten down the heliotrope trousers, and wrapped it ‘round my baton. He gave the throbbing member an expert stroke or two, then stopped, and with his python still curled ‘round my goat, asked,  
  
“And so, sir, what is your preference in wake-up calls?”  
  
I twisted the onion, the better to look into those devilish blue eyes, and said,  
  
“When in Rome, Jeeves. The Shropshire one, and the lower, the better, but, uh…”  
  
The b. e.’s sparkled mischievously.  
  
“I am told Mrs. Gregson looks very fine in her bathing dress. I believe it’s mauve with a tiny ruffle about the bosom…”  
  
“Ugh! Jeeves!” I groaned, and not in the good way. My stately pine instantly transformed into a wilting fern in Jeeves’ hand, and he released it and rolled away.  
  
“Good night, sir. Pleasant dreams.”

* * *

My dream was pleasant. I was a summer wildflower, being picked and, I think, put into someone’s collection. But before the prizes could be awarded, I surfaced, feeling a hot mouth sucking along my jaw line and an even hotter paw hoisting the sail on my very tall mizzen stand.  
  
My first words were,  
  
“Bugger all.”  
  
The cheeky reply came swift, low, and sure.  
  
“That would be the Manchester wake-up call, sir, which I’m afraid is not available at this location.”  
  
I gave a naughty snort and felt a teasing nip to the side of my neck. Then the glory that is giving the new day the glad eye while having your own glad eye expertly stroked washed over me.  
  
“Oh, Jeeves.”  
  
He hummed.  
  
And we might have continued on like that, but a preux chevalier never forgets his manners, even when he’s having his knob polished in a very low Shropshire manner.  
  
“Jeeves, I don’t want to soil a lavender-smelling country-inn bed of fiction.”  
  
“Of course, sir.”  
  
That was when the tide turned, so to speak, and so did I, shucking off my pyjama trousers and climbing atop Jeeves’ chest and feeding him my cock.  
  
When he’d swallowed, he said,  
  
“Good morning, sir.”  
  
I, for my part, slid down his frame, settled between his legs, and showed him just what Eton and Oxford can do for a boy.  
  
I may have only won prizes for summer wildflowers and Scripture knowledge, but that’s only because fellating was never a category, the lads always going more in for flogging and whatnot.  
  
When I’d swallowed, Jeeves pushed up on his elbows and looked down, like a stuffed frog whose caught the plumpest fly of his career.  
  
“Good morning, Jeeves.”


	5. Pit Stop. (Omorashi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie heeds the call of nature on the way back to town. Omorashi. No wetting. Masturbation.
> 
> For Kinktober 2020: Day 1: Omorashi

“Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that my decision to take the scenic route back to London was a misguided one.”

“Indeed, sir? The charms of the rural countryside don’t appeal as anticipated?”

“It’s not the exterior that bother me, Jeeves. It’s the interior, specifically, the fact that there are three stout public house pints working their way through the Wooster plumbing, and the metropolis is still two hours away. I need to distract myself. Take my mind off of, uh, certain things.”

“Sir, you aren’t suggesting that you drive?”

“No, no. I know of the two of us I’m in no fit state to operate heavy machinery or perform animal husbandry. I mean, you only had half a glass of orange squash, the better to win some pin money off the locals at darts, what?”

“It was a spirited contest.”

“In which you trounced them.”

“As you say, sir.” He gave the tiniest smile.

I sighed and tried to think of something sobering and, if possible, parching. I went through the catalogue of my former fiancées one by one, then I moved on to aunts, but my mind kept wandering to other matters. At first, I considered the merry woodland along which we were skirting rapidly in the two-seater and then I turned my gaze upon Jeeves’ fine profile as he captained our four-wheeled vessel. I began to admire just how well he filled out the back of his bowler, which, of course, led me to thoughts of other bulges he might have.

These last thoughts were decidedly not coming to the aid of the party. Agitate one type of plumbing and the nearby pipes start to rattle.

At last, the call of nature would not be ignored.

I glanced behind, ahead, then hissed, “Slow down, Jeeves.”

From the passenger seat, I leapt like a panting hart and ran like an insulted footman was after me.

“Sir!”

I was the deaf adder to Jeeves’ cry.

When I was hidden from the road, I whipped out the business and let ‘er rip.

“Ah!” I sighed as the stream arced toward the ground and made a long splattering noise.

“Sir?”

“Oh, Jeeves, sorry to alarm you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Jeeves was directly behind me. Suddenly, I felt his hand, still in the driving glove, on me. “I apologise, sir. I underestimated the urgency of the situation.”

“Not to worry,” I breathed as the last drips fled the tank.

“Shall I assist? I shouldn’t want your trousers to be soiled.”

I couldn’t respond. I was swept up in a tide of relief about the size of The Great Wave off Kanagawa.

Jeeves shook the Wooster nozzle. Then he began to rub around the base, mostly back and forth in the space between the lower tum and the pride of the Woosters. It produced a rather nice tingling sensation, and I slumped against him.

“Jeeves?”

“Shall I stop, sir?”

In the moment, I could think of no good reason for it.

“In the moment, I can think of no good reason for it,” I said. “We’re off the beaten path, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeeves’ took on a decidedly different character as his hand closed round the tumescence.

“Carry on, Jeeves,” I croaked before he could ask. Noblesse oblige and all that.

Jeeves bit the index finger of his leather mitt, and then, as they say, the gloves were off.

In short, he spit-shined me like a Sunday brogue, like the Sunday brogues I was wearing, in fact.

“Jeeves,” I gasped as he was setting my clothing to rights, “the trousers?”

“Escaped unblemished. But I’m afraid you shall have to wear your waistcoat buttoned until we return home.”

“So be it.”

We turned and made our way out of the woods. Jeeves pulling on his gloves, and me gathering my wits.

“That was rather sinful for a Sunday afternoon,” I remarked glibly.

Jeeves almost smirked, the bounder.

But then we came to the road, which was empty of persons, except ourselves, and vehicles, including our own.

“JEEVES!”

“Yes, sir,” he replied dismally.

“The wages of sin…”

“Yes, sir.”

“…are that someone pinches your bloody car while you’re doing them!”


	6. Just Stand There (Human furniture.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves oversees the punishment of a transgressing valet. Jeeves/Bertie. Human furniture. Anal.
> 
> For Kinktober 2020: Day 2: Human furniture.

“Lord, love a duck!”

“A word, sir?”

“Just one?” I exclaimed as I allowed Jeeves to lead me from the threshold of my bedroom through the flat to the kitchen table. When the door to the kitchen had swung closed, I picked up the refrain.

“Lord, love a duck! It’s going take more than one word to explain why there’s a blindfolded man in his undergarments holding a tray in my bedroom, Jeeves!”

“The Junior Ganymede Club, sir, offers valets who have transgressed against the Club’s code of conduct the opportunity to atone, should they wish it, and have the violation expunged from their record. This is Marrow’s first office. I took a liberty of volunteering to oversee the execution of his sentence.”

“Good Lord! His sentence? Are we to be Reading Gaol for every wayward gentleman’s gentleman in the land? Justice will be tempered with mercy, I hope. What is his punishment, exactly?”

“He is to serve as a furnishing, specifically, a stand, a wooden valet, if you’ll allow, for an evening.”

“Wooden valet?” I echoed. “You mean those oaken jobbies where you drop your wallet and hang your jacket and trousers?”

“Precisely, sir. He will be equipped with a harness upon which you can place your outerwear.”

I let the notion roll around the onion for a moment. Jeeves held his peace.

“All right,” I decided. “I’ll allow it, but for goodness’ sake, take the blindfold off, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir. Part of the rehabilitation is for the transgressor to watch in silence as a Club member performs his duties according to the Club’s standards of excellence.”

“Ah, so we’re going to play this by the book, are we? Studding shirts with efficiency and whatnot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said for an evening.”

“Yes, until you return to the residence for the night or midnight, whichever comes first.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll probably change, sup at the Drones, and make an early night of it.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Marrow, you said the chappie’s name was? We know him, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir. Marrow is in the employ of the youngest son of Lord Loring.”

“That’s right! We saw him and ol’ Lorry those two weeks in August when we were down at Toad-in-the-Wold, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, Jeeves, am I supposed to throw my weight about and act the cad?”

“If you wish, sir. Above all, you should regard Marrow as a furnishing and think no more or less of him than that.”

“Very well. May I ask what the poor blighter did to get put in the stocks?”

“You may, sir. He stole three pairs of socks from his employer.”

“Crime doesn’t pay, Jeeves.”

“So I’m given to understand, sir.”

“Well, let’s get on with it.”

* * *

I was pacing hard and fast until I finally heard the tell-tale click of my heart, or rather the front door.

“Jeeves!”

“Yes?”

The dropping of the ‘sir’ was the only aphrodisiac I required. I was the panting hart to Jeeves’ cooling stream as I leapt toward the door.

Marvelous cove, Jeeves. I can throw myself at him like an ardent shepherdess, and he can kiss me like an equally shepherd, all while removing his coat and hat and storing them according to accepted and acceptable domestic conventions.

“Jeeves!” I gasped when we came up for air.

He smiled as I tugged him toward the bedroom.

“Marrow, Jeeves!”

“Yes.”

He was shrugging out of his jacket. I was easing his braces down his shoulders.

“How did you know I thought he was a looker?”

“You made a remark to that effect when we first made his acquaintance in August.”

“But just the one. Remark, that is.”

I yanked Jeeves’ shirttails from his trousers as he began to unbutton the offending garment.

“You don’t often compare other gentlemen’s valets to Antinous, and I observed a few admiring glances cast in his direction over the fortnight.”

“And you weren’t jealous?”

My hands were in his hair, ruffling and smoothing it in turn.

“I am secure in my affections.”

He kissed me so hard my pins became jelly. I spun us around and shoved him to sitting on the bed.

“You’re going to be secure somewhere else in a moment,” I declared as I threw off my dressing gown in a theatrical flourish and crawled into his lap as naked as a jaybird. “Or at least your prick is. I spent the time it took you to escort Marrow back to his parole officer to make room at the inn, so to speak.”

“I hoped you would,” Jeeves rumbled as he swiftly and efficiently freed a massive erection.

“I was getting so hot and bothered looking at him,” I confessed. “Just standing there. I never thought that dropping my clip and coins on a tray would be so, well, so, you know.”

“I know,” murmured Jeeves against my cheek just before he conjured a jar slick like a rabbit out of old felt hat. “That’s why I volunteered.” He coated his prick. “I knew the effect he would have on you.”

“Oh, God, let me on you, you beast!” I begged.

Jeeves bit at the Wooster darling buds of May and groped the Wooster plums while I rose up and got myself in just the right position.

We moaned together, loud, unashamed and uninhibited, as I sank down, impaling myself upon his size-10-bowler prick.

“Bertram!”

“Jeeves,” I can’t call him ‘Reggie,’ I just can’t, “I gave the prisoner some socks.”

He kissed my shoulder. “Which ones?” He bounced me in his lap.

“A grey pair. Oh, fuck, Jeeves!”

“That all?” he asked before sucking a bruise onto the Wooster neck.

“Dark blue, too.”

He licked my lucky nipple and hummed. “Mm?”

“And the, uh, ones you call lime and I call, uh, uh, sour apple!”

I felt the full-bodied shudder go through Jeeves. His smile was plastered to my chest, and he was groaning like that unfortunate Greek chappie who got his his liver pecked out as he slammed up into me and began to spend and chant.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh, yes…”


	7. Bands of Merry Men. (Stockings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tights to Bertie's Robin Hood costume are too scratchy. Lingerie. Anal. Oral. 
> 
> For Kinktober: Day 11: Stockings.
> 
> Inspired by the [Molly set](https://www.agentprovocateur.com/new-in/molly-suspender-in-green-109866#selection.color=5) from Agent Provocateur.

“Disgruntled, sir?”

“Far from gruntled, Jeeves. I just picked up my fancy dress for tonight’s party. I’m going as Robin Hood. They were all out of Sinbad the Sailor.”

“I see, sir. A flattering shade of green. Commonly referred to as ‘forest.’”

“Yes, and I get a feather in my cap, which is rare for me. The tunic is all right, but see here, put your mitts on these.”

Jeeves fingered the coarse green wool and shook his head. “These won’t do, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. Too scratchy for the pins, what? I’ll break out in a rash from slipper to Maid Marion.”

“Yes, sir. Might I consult the inventory for alternatives?”

“You mean the stocks of Eulalie Sir, your side enterprise which provides high quality frilly undergarments for the discerning gentleman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Toot sweet, Jeeves. The festivities are tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

“These are just dandy, Jeeves. I look like a stuffed frog. Speaking of which, so do you.”

“I think those will do nicely, sir, but I took the liberty of bringing one more choice. It was the only other offering in that particular shade of green, but if you are satisfied with these, you needn’t view it.”

“Now, now, Jeeves, let’s see the goods.”

“Oh, dear, that a different mechanism altogether, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. If I might be of assistance?”

“You’ve going to have to, Jeeves. I think it’s going to require a size-10 brain to figure out just what goes where with these bits.”

Jeeves took the items, piece by piece, and set about their assembly round the Wooster corpus.

“Ah, I see. The belt goes round the midriff like a cummerbund. But there’s no touch of the old hidalgo about this, Jeeves, is there?”

“No, sir. And, here, the suspenders go down and connect.”

“You know, Jeeves, they use the word ‘suspender’ differently in New York.”

“They do, indeed, sir.”

“Creates for a certain amount of confusion at the tailors.”

“If you’ll lend me your foot, sir.”

“Steady on, Jeeves. Ah, I see, these silk nothings come up.”

“The stockings, sir, yes, and connect with the belt like so.”

“I see. Rather sheer, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, delicate, but it is supposed to be unseasonably warm this evening.”

“Is it? How you know everything. No knickers, Jeeves? Matchy-matchy and all that?”

“They exist, sir, but I thought you might find them constricting.”

“I see your point.” 

I stepped in front of the looking glass. Jeeves stood behind me.

We angled our lemons this way and that, judging the book by its cover.

“It does frame the pride of the Woosters rather nicely.”

“It does, indeed, sir.”

The pride of the Jeeveses thirded this motion by rising to the occasion and pressing into my hindquarters.

I turned to the side. Jeeves did, too, and sank to his knees, running his mitts from instep to inseam.

“Finest silk, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it. Spun by contented worms, I’ll bet.”

“Indeed. Sir?”

“Yes.”

He took my prick in his mouth and sucked.

I watched in the looking glass.

Jeeves is as bally efficient at fellating as he is about everything else, so I was popping my cork in no time.

I turned round. He got to his feet. I bent over. 

“I’m still a bit open from this morning.”

“I’m gratified to hear it, sir.”

I watched again as he took me from behind.

“Well, Jeeves,” I said a few minutes later, “if I wanted to play host to a band of merry men, I’d go with this one, but I think the others, the, uh, what’s the word—?”

“Mmfgh.”

I pride myself on the skill I’ve acquired over the years in interpreting Jeeves’ replies when he has his tongue in my arse. I do so often want conversation when he just wants to lick jelly-joy out of me.

“Tights, yes, I think the tights will be better, but can we keep these?”

Jeeves sat back on his heels and took the proffered handkerchief. He patted his maw daintily.

“We can, sir. In the catalogue, it’s called the Molly, by the way.”

“Oh, God, Jeeves. Do get the whole set. We must have knickers.”

“Yes, sir.”


	8. Tell me about it, stud. (NTR/infidelity)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another valet studs Bertie's shirt. 
> 
> For Kinktober Day 14: NTR [which is netorare or infidelity or cheating or cuckolding kink]

“Well,” I said when I could once more call my negligible mental faculties my own, “that was…”

I couldn’t think of the word I wanted, and it was too late to ask for a cup of tea, so I rolled towards the bedside table and took a cigarette from my case. I lit it, took a drag, and extended my hand, offering the cigarette to him who was the keeper of my heart as well as the kindler of my loins.

Much to my surprise, he accepted.

“It’s a blue moon,” I observed, apropos of things that don’t happen very often.

Jeeves hummed and blew out a perfect smoke ring, which dissolved over the bed.

“Jeeves, is this outpouring of ardour all because you caught Turret studding my shirt earlier this evening?”

“He took a grave liberty. He was only supposed to deliver the laundered shirt to you whilst I was otherwise occupied. He was not to assist you in donning it or accessorising it.”

“Right.”

Jeeves returned the cigarette to me. I took a drag and expelled the smoke in the opposite direction of my beloved.

“Jeeves, for the record, for my part…”

“I know. Nevertheless, there are some acts which a valet considers sacrosanct, to be performed only by a gentleman’s gentleman for his gentleman. No one else.” 

I didn’t dare ask if this was common to all of his tribe or whether this was just a singularity of his own. Either way, it was good to know, especially for the next time I desired to be mauled by a pack of hungry lions or, in this case, only one lion with beautiful blue e.’s, a size-10 head, and a size-10 prick to match.

Really, that flowery phrase from some of the more salacious of literature aimed at the sensibilities of the delicately nurtured came to mind. _He claimed her._

Jeeves had claimed me.

It was lovely and unexpected and would probably result in the Wooster sitter being slightly sore on the morrow.

“Jeeves, you know that the studs in my shirt and the heart on my sleeve and everything else is yours.”

“Mine,” agreed Jeeves in a deliciously low rumble that made me pinch the cigarette between my lips and roll until I was on top of him, straddling him.

I sat up.

He took the cigarette from my lips, put it in his own, and smiled.


	9. The traditional fifth year anniversary gift is wood. (Cock warming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves lets his employer know a perk of reaching the 5-year mark. Cock warming.
> 
> For the 2020 Kinktober Day 19: Cockwarming.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I cried as I sidled into the kitchen and observed him applying a goodish smear of icing to the old Victoria sponge. “Special occasion?”

“Yes, sir. As of today, I have been in your employment five years.”

“Egad, Jeeves! I suppose you’re right. Time flies like an arrow, and fruit flies like a banana, and what a glorious half-decade it has been.”

“I’m gratified to hear it, sir. Five years is a milestone with some significance. I can now offer you warming services.”

I let the word ‘warming’ roll around the bean as I admired the cake.

“Would that be of the hot water bottle variety of warming, Jeeves?”

“Precisely, sir. Should you wish it.”

* * *

“By Jove, Jeeves!” I exclaimed after sliding between the sheets and tucking my willowy, heliotrope-striped-pyjama form against the bed’s other occupant. “You’re a polar-bear-shaped furnace! I know we’re not really an economy household, but I should think indulging in this on regular basis would lower the heating bill considerably!” 

“It is something to consider, sir. You may make yourself comfortable.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

I divested myself of pyjamas and resumed my position. “All right.”

“Perfectly, sir. If I may also…”

“By all means.”

Then we did our best impression of a lizard lounging on a rock, with myself in the role of reptile and Jeeves playing the part of the stone.

* * *

I woke the next morning with my entire corpus cocooned in warmth, but with one part of the anatomy more swaddled that the rest. It took a moment for me to realise that the pride of the Woosters was sitting snugly inside the catbird seat of the Jeeveses.

“Good morning, Jeeves,” I murmured into the nape of a neck.

“It most certainly is, sir.” He reached back and hoisted a Wooster pin over his hip and began to rock us. Naturally, I responded by snake an arm around his waist and finding something to hang my fist on.

“Bed knobs and broomsticks, Jeeves?”

He groaned and rolled us forward and back, and soon my paw was being filled with something to give the troops—if I was planning on frigging a battalion, that is.

When we’d both stickied the wicket, so to speak, I kissed his marvelous shoulder and asked, “Jeeves, with respect to this milestone, what does your gentleman’s gentleman’s custom book say about cutlery?”

“Cutlery, sir? Polishing, setting, or recreational use thereof?”

“None of the above. I mean to ask must the y. m. always be the big spoon?”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“It’s mute on the subject, sir.”

“Then what say you to having a go as the ladle with me as the gravy?”

“Tonight, sir?”

“Just so.”

“I say ‘I look forward to it, sir.’”

“Any chance of getting a slice of that Victoria sponge with the eggs and b.?”

There was a delicious rumble beneath my touch which I interpreted, correctly, as it turned out, in the affirmative.

* * *

I can’t say how chuffed I was the following morning to wake impaled on the pride of the Jeeveses, which is, by the way, as amply nourished as the brain of the Jeeveses, if you catch my meaning, and I think you do. Jeeves was absolutely on fire, pressed sweaty, warm, and wonderful against my back, licking and biting the Wooster neck as he ground out his ‘Good morning, good morning, good morning.’

When it wrapped round the tumescence, Jeeves’ mitt was tight and wet, and he stroked me like an Oxford rower on the second Sunday in March.

“Sir…”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s a wonderful tradition, the five year gift of wood. 


	10. Mandrakes. (Gingering. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie returns from a mandrake party. Crack. Rating: Teen. Triple drabble. Mention of figging/gingering.
> 
> For the 2020 Kinktober Day 20: Foodplay.

“Jeeves!”

“Sir! Is something the matter?” He sprang to his feet like a good ‘un.

“I’ll say, Jeeves!”

“Have a seat, sir.” Jeeves indicated a chair at the dining room table where he was polishing the silver. “Would you like a cup of tea or something stronger?”

“No, no libations. And I know it puts you in an awkward position, Jeeves, but I’d prefer to stand.”

“Not at all, sir.” Jeeves removed a chair from the table. I have to admit every other manservant I’ve had would’ve looked silly polishing the silver standing up, but not Jeeves. He was above that as he was the silver.

“Jeeves, does the Junior Ganymede Club accept second-hand accounts for your ledger-book of secrets?”

“At times, sir.”

“Well, I want it somewhere, for the record, that when Freddie Wigeon invites you to a mandrake party, it means, believe me or believe me not, you’re going to be shoving ginger root up your arse! Forgive the language, Jeeves, but I’m a bit…”

“Hot, sir?”

“Around the collar that’s not at my neck, Jeeves, yes. I’m an open-minded individual. I’m always amenable to lending a fiver ‘til next Wednesday or trying a spoonful of a gran’s chutney, but I say!”

“Mandrake, sir?”

“Poet chappie who buttoned his collar at the back and felt bad about it. ‘Get with child,’ etcetera.”

“John Donne, sir.”

“I don’t care about Johns. _I’m_ done, Jeeves! I mean, they peeled it, of course. No splinters. And some of the guest liked it. I suspect Oofy Prosser was planning his next holiday to the Spice Islands by the end of it.” 

“Shall I draw you a bath, sir?”

“Yes, soothing waters, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no late night. I’m dining in tonight. What’s on the menu?”

Jeeves coughed apologetically. “Uh, curry, sir?”


	11. One just does not look a Sexy Nurse Gift Costume in the mouth, Jeeves. (Lingerie. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a parcel mix-up at Berkley Mansions. POV Jeeves. Rating: Teen.
> 
> For 2020 Kinktober Day 28: Lingerie. Bertie's outfit inspired by [this](https://www.walmart.com/ip/Sexy-Nurse-On-Duty-Costume-Sexy-Nurse-Costume/163833712).
> 
> So that's it for Bertie and Kinktober 2020. Thank you to all my gentle readers, and I hope you've enjoyed Bertie's shenanigans and hi-jinks.

“Mister Jeeves.”

I nodded at our dark-haired neighbour who was hovering about the lift doors in a way that suggested something other than a desire to descend floors.

“Good day, Mrs. Monroe.”

“I think I may have received a parcel intended for your address.”

“Indeed?”

She beckoned, and I followed.

“It’s been raining so hard. I think the address got washed away. They’re books on philosophy and murder mysteries.”

I looked in the open box on a table just inside the door of her flat.

“My apologies, madame. You are correct. My employer and I receive a monthly assortment from a local bookseller.”

I bent to pick up the box.

“Mister Jeeves, I wonder if you might have received a parcel for me by mistake.”

I’d left the flat early that morning and had not returned since.

“I’m not aware of any, but I will ask my employer.”

“He wouldn’t, uh, open a box that was addressed to someone else, would he?”

“My employer is a gentleman, and he prides himself on his code of conduct.”

She tucked a dark strand behind her ear. “May I tell you something, Mister Jeeves?”

Having much experience with such statements, I was certain I did not want to be taken into this lady’s confidence, but I was just as certain I would have no say in the matter.

“Of course.”

“I’ve been married seven years. No children yet. You have to keep the fires burning, don’t you? My husband’s office has a typing pool. I ordered something. It was supposed to arrive today. A novelty.”

Oh, dear. 

“From where, madame?”

“Max’s in Soho. In the name of Ginger Puss.”

“I will check. Thank you.” I picked up the box of books and, as my employer would say, legged it.

As soon as I entered the flat, I smelled the petrichor of my employer having a lark.

I set the box of books down.

“Mister Jeeves!” The voice was a sing-song falsetto. The figure in the threshold was a very English gentleman clad in a very short, very tight, very white dress and cap and white fishnet stockings. All decorated with red crosses. He also wore a very blonde wig. “Are you running a fever?” he asked as he cocked his hip to one side and batted his eyelashes. “Any dull aches I should know about?”

“I would prefer,” I said evenly, “to linger in the waiting room for about ten minutes, Nurse.”

“Ten minutes,” he said huffily, then he turned and stomped toward the bedroom, lifting the back of his dress that I might have a better view of his bare arse.

I went to the kitchen and the telephone and in about nine and a half minutes, I had succeeded in getting a replacement costume set by express delivery to Miss Ginger Puss. Then I proceeded directly to the bedroom, where I announced,

“I’m a very ill man, Nurse.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Jeeves, you are going to get the best possible care.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please visit the DW [Give Satisfaction](https://give-satisfaction.dreamwidth.org/) for more Wodehouse naughtiness.


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